I thought it would be nice to offer my readers a glimpse to the distant past (2016/17, to be precise) and the first draft of Fallible Justice. Back then, the book contained a prologue as well as an epilogue, both of which I later cut from the second draft because I didn’t feel they added to the story enough to warrant the space they took. Some of the salient bits got incorporated into later chapters, but the epilogue in particular bridges a tiny gap between Fallible Justice and Echo Murder, as well as ending a storyline that remained unresolved at the end of Fallible Justice.
Without further ado, here they are; rather rough around the edges, but part of the Wilde Investigations world just the same.
WARNING, THE BELOW CONTAIN SPOILERS!
1 – A Death and a Judgement
Energised by the release, Gideor rose from the bed and slipped on a white angora wool robe. The weave was soft enough to remind him of delicate hands on his body, and he smiled at fond memories. Tonight the hands had been larger, calloused from preparing spell ingredients, but the pleasure had been no less, only different.
Now the tangled sheets and the sweat still cooling on his skin slipped from his mind, replaced by thoughts of spells and preparations needed for a meeting with the heads of the other schools of Mages. It was in his nature to focus on a task at the exclusion of all others, and he had achieved great things that way. Yet there was always more to attain, and that was the nature of life for the likes of him.
It took little more than a thought and a mere exhale of power to light the cluster of tapers on the box window sill. He could have had electric lights installed, but here at the seat of his power, it seemed appropriate to work in the light of a hundred candles. After all, light was the perceived source of his power.
He was filled with magic to the point of bursting and on an impulse, he willed every candle in the room to light. The flare of flames was so bright he had to shield his eyes.
There were two desks in the room, against the opposite walls. Both were constructed from polished oak, with intricate carvings of leaves, vines and fey decorating the edges. He had ordered them and matching chairs as a set from a Feykin carpenter. The price had been astronomical and he had waited several years for them to be finished, but it had all been worth it. The carpenter had teased out figures, leaves and flowers from the wood without the need of a chisel or a knife. Each detail had emerged from the wood grain with a mere stroke of fingers and a burst of power. A rarity among his kind, the carpenter had used his magic to create unique pieces of art that no human artisan could ever hope to match.
One of the desks was covered in neat stacks of papers, tomes of Council minutes and a mahogany tray of post and petitions waiting for his attention. That desk marked him as the Speaker of the High Council of Mages. The other held neat rows of bottles and jars filled with spell ingredients. Its surface was pitted and scarred from experiments, both successful and otherwise, and next to the desk was a glass-fronted cabinet containing his most valuable tomes and magical artefacts. That desk marked him as the First among the Light Mages, the title he bore with pride mixed with a hint of bemusement.
Both desks held items that required his attention, but for that evening, the Council matters won over his personal work. He sat on a high-backed oaken chair that had been decorated to match the desk. The backrest was formed of three elven figures caught in mid revel, hair and garlands of leaves flowing around them. Focusing his mind, he reached for the first item of post.
How long he spent reading petitions, invitations and notices deemed important enough for his personal attention, he was not certain. When the post tray was empty, he leaned back in the chair and stretched his tired muscles. He had filled another tray with his replies, ready for his assistant the following morning. Each piece of original post had a sheet of his personal stationery attached to it, on which he was written a response, a suggestion for further action or a simple order to ignore it.
There was further paperwork to do, that side of being the Speaker of the Council was never ending even with the help of an assistant and a secretary, but he found his thoughts drifting to a fresh delivery of swan feathers and a vial of powdered true silver. Continuing the work on a spell he was constructing tempted him away from Council minutes and for the second time that evening, he gave in to his desires. He set his fountain pen on a stack of stationery sheets and rose to cross the room. The study was silent, and for a brief moment, he wondered when his lover had left. By the time he reached the other desk, the thought had slipped from his mind.
Both desks contained several hidden compartments, and he pressed a particular ivy leaf among the carvings to open a secret drawer. Inside was a key to his cabinet of spell books and artefacts. When it came to his research, he did not trust even his assistant with the notes he had written. If he was not working on them, they were kept under lock and key. Now he unlocked the doors, ready to select what he needed for the next part of his research.
The slide of the blade between his ribs was smooth, and in the moment before the pain registered, he detected the surge of magic driving the movement. It was a killing blow, he knew that much. His heart attempted to contract around the foreign object, the blade cutting further into the muscle, and stuttered. When the weapon was withdrawn, he heard the sound of blood drops landing on the carpet. At the back of his mind, he was surprised that he could focus on such a minute sound and also that the blood was dripping rather than gushing, but most of his thoughts were occupied by a need to turn around, to defend himself, to call for help. He attempted to do so, only to discover that his body was no longer his to control.
A chuckle rang out in the room, and he recognised the familiar sound. Indignation flared into anger when he identified his murderer. Instead of wondering about the motive, he was surprised. Should he have seen it coming?
His knees buckled and strong arms caught him, laying him on his back on the cream rug. The candles around the room stuttered, affected by his pain, and the familiar face hovering above him was wreathed in dancing shadows. A tug at the woven belt opened his robe, and he saw the candlelight flash from a blade a moment before he felt the bite of steel against his chest. He expected another flare of agony, but the cuts remained shallow. Blood welled in the wounds as something silvery was scattered across his chest. It was a symbol, a glyph of power, but his leaden head weight too much for him to look at the inscription.
Why was he still conscious? His stuttering heart should have given up, he should have passed out from the blood loss. Yet he lay on the rug, paralysed but in control of his faculties.
He heard the beginnings of an incantation, and the scholarly part of his mind recognised the words, identified the magic being worked. As the realisation hit him, the blood slowing in his veins froze. It would be a prolonged, painful death.
Forcing his jaw to unclench, he opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came.
*
The courtroom was full. It had been a high profile murder, and people had gathered to watch the judgement. Some were family, some were colleagues. Others were members of the law enforcement team that had handled the investigation or reporters who had been following the case since the news of the death had broken. And then there were those who were there to satisfy their curiosity.
Seating was arranged along the walls of the circular chamber. The benches formed almost a circle; along one end, the walls had been left clear for doors admitting the officials presiding over the judgement, the Paladin of Justice and, of course, the accused. Much of the floor of the chamber was left clear for a huge summoning circle. Each symbol had been hand carved into the marble floor and filled with true silver. It was a circle designed to welcome and to ease the materialisation, rather than to imprison and dominate. At one side of the circle were the seats of the officials, at the other an iron pillar.
The accused alone stood on the floor of the chamber, chained to the pillar. Bindings forged of cold iron, true silver and heart copper ensured that strength, magic or supernatural means could not break the chains. Many had tried, all had failed. The man wore simple black trousers and a white shirt. His thinning black hair, streaked with grey, was combed back, and he was freshly shaved. He was barefoot. A collar forged of the same materials as the chains bound his magic just as the shackles bound his physical form.
Those who attended judgements on a regular basis muttered among themselves that there was something odd about the accused. Most of the time the men and women chained to the iron pillar appeared nervous, fearful or defiant. Many had their wrists rubbed raw by attempts to slip through the manacles. But not this man. He looked calm, relaxed even as he took in the people staring down at him. When his eyes found familiar faces among the crowd, he smiled; an offer of reassurance to those feeling less confident than he did. Many were left with the impression that the impending judgement did not concern the accused at all.
The murmur of voices in the courtroom died down when the double doors opened to admit the officials presiding over the case. A representative of the High Council of Mages was the first to step through, wearing the grey robes of neutrality. He was followed by a Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard, an Elder of the Circle of Shamans and finally a Paladin of Justice. While the Mage, the Detective Inspector and the Shaman took their places behind the officials’ table, the Paladin faced the accused at the far side of the summoning circle.
There was no one to present the case on behalf of the Crown. No barrister stood for the accused. Jury had no place in the courtroom. They were all gathered not to hear the particulars of the case, but to determine the guilt or innocence of the accused.
Squaring his shoulders, the Paladin looked over his shoulder at the Mage seated between the Detective Inspector and the Shaman, and nodded. In response, the Mage rose to his feet.
‘Brother Valeron, please begin.’
Brother Valeron knelt on the polished marble floor with a solemn expression and began the chant to summon the Herald. At first, nothing happened, but as the words sung gained speed and confidence, the silver symbols began to glow. The air inside the circle crackled with tension, and the spectators around the room felt the gathering of power. With a blinding flash of light, a portal shimmered into existence, casting dancing shadows around the room. The shifting colours were too bright to look at direct, but the iridescent reflections on the marble floor offered a glimpse of the beauty of the gateway.
A figure stepped through the portal, and at his wake, the opening diminished, shrinking into a pool of otherness at the centre of the circle. The Herald of Justice was clad in loose robes which shifted from black to white and through all the shades of grey in between as they billowed around him in a wind no one else could discern. His features were too long to be human, and his eyes were solid orbs of blue that cast a glow over his sharp cheekbones. The hair that streamed behind him could have been silver, or white or iridescent black; it, like his robes, defied definition.
Respectful silence settled over the courtroom as the Herald stepped towards the accused. Even those who denied the existence of magic could not refute the presence of the otherworldly being before them. Wherever he had come from, it was not the plane humans inhabited.
Brother Valeron pushed himself up and came around the circle to stand next to the Herald. His head was bowed and his posture spoke of deep respect. In contrast, the accused was studying the Herald’s countenance with an expression that could only be described as scientific curiosity.
Behind the official’s desk, the Mage unwound a short scroll and began to read:
‘Jonathain Marsh, you hereby stand accused of the murder of Gideor Braeman, the Speaker of the High Council of Mages and the First among the Light Mages. You are further accused of profiting from your crimes by way of auctioning certain artefacts of power taken from the victim’s abode. Stand ready to receive the judgement of the Herald.’
Brother Valeron translated the charges for the Herald, who leaned forward to stare at the accused. Marsh lifted his chin, eyes locked on the Herald, as he offered an unrestricted view of his face. Even when presented with the grave charges, his expression exuded nothing but calm confidence.
After a tense silence, the Herald uttered a word, delivering his verdict. While the officials had learned the sounds for guilty and innocent, Brother Valeron translated the verdict for the benefit of the courtroom as a whole:
‘Guilty.’
For a moment, Marsh’s expression did not falter, but then Brother Valeron’s word sunk in. His eyes widened with shock and disbelief.
‘No. That’s not possible. I’m innocent.’
There was a murmur of disquiet among the audience, though such protests were not uncommon in the courtroom. More than once, criminals had thought the Herald’s powers exaggerated, only for them to be convicted of their crimes.
A young woman in the front row burst into tears, while an older woman bearing her likeness wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gazed down with detached disapproval. In a different part of the seating, a woman stood up and hurried out of the room.
Unconcerned by the reactions to the verdict, the Herald turned away from Marsh. Brother Valeron bowed deep, offering the being their thanks for the justice imparted and the Herald stepped into the pool of shifting colours. A blinding flash of light later, he was gone.
Two more Paladins, dressed in full battle attire, came through the double doors and unlocked the chains from the iron pillar. Marsh’s calm demeanour was gone, and he struggled against the bonds as he was escorted out of the room. All the while he kept repeating:
‘It’s a mistake. I’m innocent. It’s a mistake.’
Behind the officials’ desk, the Mage rolled the scroll of charges back into its tight holder and led his colleagues out of the room. There was nothing further for them to do now the verdict had been imparted. The sentence for a murder committed with the aid of magic was always the same: execution.
Brother Valeron lifted his eyes to the sobbing daughter of the accused and for a moment his face reflected the woman’s sorrow. Then he bowed his head and hurried out of the courtroom.
Epilogue
The cell was grey, as was the view out of the barred window. Even the clothes he wore were grey.
Robbed of his magic by the collar fastened around his neck, the world was devoid of colour, of the spark that made life worthwhile. Even the fading light reaching the floor of the cell was dull, no longer his to command.
He had explored the small cell, inspected every inch for a weakness. There were none. Given enough time and with the help of his wife, perhaps it would have been possible to find a way to escape. But no such help was forthcoming. As was to be expected from her kind, Eolande had disappeared at the first sign of trouble. Having gained an understanding of how Feykin perceived the world during his marriage, he could not blame her for bailing. He had nothing more to give her, nothing more to gain from her.
Behind him, the lock of the cell door clicked and he turned just as it opened. Instead of the guards he had expected, as grey and sullen as their surrounds, a man in flowing grey robes walked in. The first thing he noticed was the sword at the man’s side, the second that he had no collar binding his magic.
‘Well, this is quite the surprise,’ Reaoul said and watched the Paladin General place a tray on the only table in the room. On it was a bottle of red wine, already opened to allow the wine to breathe, a wine glass and a wide silver cloche.
‘Your circumstances are… unique.’
‘It isn’t often that a man is arrested and imprisoned indefinitely without a judgement.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say indefinitely.’ The Paladin General tilted his head as he regarded Reaoul. ‘Besides, you’ve known all along that if you were caught, you would never stand to be judged for your crimes.’
‘You could have claimed I was an accomplice to Marsh’s crime.’
‘True, but why give you a chance to reveal the extent of your evil deeds? Best you stay here, as an anonymous prisoner no one has any official paperwork for.’
‘So you’ve got it all worked out? Every last detail covered?’ Reaoul stepped closer, hands on his hips.
‘I’ll let you be the judge of that.’ The Paladin General dipped his chin. ‘Enjoy our meal.’
Soon Reaoul was alone in the cell again and he sat down by the table. Under the cloche was a plate with a steaming casserole dish of Beef Bourguignon, with mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables on the side. The red wine was a perfect accompaniment for it, the cutlery was silver and the plate porcelain. They had even included a cloth napkin. It was quite a meal for a prisoner.
Would the poison be in the casserole or in the wine?
Reaoul smiled as he lay the napkin across his lap and poured himself a glass of wine. The rich aromas of the meal and the wine tantalised his taste buds. He was hungry.
‘All things must die,’ Reaoul murmured and picked up the fork. Today was his turn.